Waltz and Tango
by KatxValentine
Summary: Buffy is structured, elegant though well put together; Faith is passion set ablaze, fire kindled aflame. When Faith sustains a formidable blow to the head, she has no choice but to shack up with the blonde Slayer.
1. And With a Kiss

It's almost enchanting, Buffy Summers thinks, because she's so scared to dance in the shadows. Faith thrives on the dark, lives in it; like the vampires she slays, the demons she devours in flashes of splintering wood and pure, sheer flesh. Buffy doesn't quite know how to dance as Faith does.

It's like she's the waltz and Faith is the Tango. Buffy is structured, elegant though well put together; Faith is passion set ablaze, fire kindled aflame.

Buffy can't help but remember that standing too close to the fire gets one burned. Buffy is cautious. Faith is a monster.

"Hey, B!" Faith calls, out of breath and excited. A grin spreads across her lips, rips her dimples into visible existence, and her dark eyes glimmer like onyx malice, "Ya gonna stand there all day, or are ya gonna kick some vampire ass?!"

Buffy realizes, in embarrassment, that she's musing in real-time about the nature of Faith's actions. The Slayer with the vividly red lips only relentlessly pounds a deformed creature in the chest, and neglects the use of her stake entirely. Buffy plants a solid foot in a less solid chest and drives her stake through an undead heart. Little particles of grain fall around her like fairy dust and the sounds of Faith's raw, bloody knuckles landing in perfect _THUNK THUNK THUNK! _blows against deceased skin.

_Faith_, Buffy thinks, and plants another stake, _is just like poetry in motion._

They fall around her easy, even when her mind isn't all there. It drifts around, here and there, but it's so easy and so true. Buffy works in fast-motion, like a robot programmed to the hunt. When it's done there's a silence. The deafening sound blankets them, and the over-eager, younger Slayer offers a sly grin. It's cancerous, Buffy thinks, like the cigarettes Faith smokes, like the air Faith breathes.

"Real five-by-five, hah, B? You oughta take a page outta _my_ book." Her hands triumphantly slip to her hips, and on her toes Faith even still fails to reach Buffy's full height. Her chest sticks out proudly, but her face reads only a convergence of need for approval. Buffy doesn't answer right away, and Faith's expression falters. For a second, Buffy sees the dimples briefly slink back into the contours of Faith's skin.

"That was definitely good work, Faith. But I'm not very partial to blind rage, myself."

Faith just laughs, and Buffy listens. Faith is the fire and Buffy's the ice. Buffy is safe where Faith is exotic; like the comparison of a daisy to a thorny red rose. Faith is wrapped in barbed wire, and Buffy is swaddled in warm pillows.

Buffy stares at her a little too long, but Faith only says, "Maybe _you_ should learn that control isn't everythin', hah? Walk on the wild side—ya know, laugh in the face of danger, ha, ha, ha, ha—"

And Buffy kisses Faith.


	2. Infatuated Embers

Neither forgets. The rest of that night, Faith muses in the dark, dingy emptiness of her hotel room about the way Buffy's lips felt there, soft, pressed against her own. Buffy tastes like the constant need for spearmint gum and a hint of peppermint. Buffy tastes exactly like _I shouldn't be doing this._

And in the hollow fluff of her own bedspread, Buffy sprawls out under the cover of moonlight and tucks an arm behind her head to lean. She stares soundlessly up at the ceiling and all she can think is, _Wow, that was weird._ The brief moments of electrified _this is so right_ and sparking _you're so beautiful_ come rushing back, and all she has within the confines of the night are thoughts that break around in her head like a bull in a china closet. Thoughts about Faith. Faith, who is younger than she is and will ever be, Faith, who ironically has none of what her name happens to be, _Faith._

She turns over on her side, clicks off the light and just stops for a second. Her pale blue eyes are wondering, _Is she thinking the same way? No, she's Faith. She's probably dreaming about blood and guts and naked alligator wrasslin'. _

Faith, who is, in fact, less prone to censorship than Buffy Summers, rolls onto her stomach in the silence of the room and re-imagines the moment. Buffy pressed against her (no, less like _pressed_, more like _fluttered)_ and the sheer feel of her tan stomach just nestled there, and the way Faith's hands couldn't find a place to set themselves. They look everywhere, the fingertips shyly grazing over Buffy's caramel skin, but they never quite settle on a destination. They hover nearby Buffy's hips, and despite their owner's command to calm down, Faith can't bring her hands to make full contact with her fellow Slayer's skin.

But it's Buffy, and the kiss is innocent, sweet, small, the teasing kind of smooch, Faith figures, that just makes you pine for more.

Faith wishes she could kiss Buffy again. A furtive look at the cell phone beside her bed reads _5:24 AM_. In some epic, time-stopping mutter of a thought, Faith knows it's been about three or four hours since their brief seconds of friction.

She clicks the dusty light on the dirty dresser off and tells herself in a low whisper, "Better quit obsessin' like a frat-boy, Faithy."

And the Slayers sleep.


	3. Solace

After a feat beyond imagination by the brave Miss Faith, Buffy watches in shock and awe as the ages-old Kakistos evaporates into vampire dust of the typical kind. Alone and with only the sound of shallow breath, she glances down at Faith and wracks the younger, shivering form for some kind of solace. Faith's dark chocolate eyes stare solidly at the ground. She's planted there, trembling and quiet. Her lips, painted a dark, bloody red (_Merlot,_ Buffy thinks, so randomly and intuitively it scares her, _the same color as fancy wine)_ pout and tremor through the force of her impending tears.

Faith's Watcher, Buffy somehow understands, is dead. She wonders what it would be like to carry that burden around for so long. What if Giles died, what would happen?

Faith slides down the wall and curls into her leather jacket, wrapping it around herself protectively and pulling as tight as she can to form a cocoon. Faith, Buffy is beginning to understand, is not as beastly as she thinks. Watching Faith there makes her think no one has ever looked more human.

Dead. Gone. And Faith seems to be the only one in the world left who cares about _Faith._ There's some kind of guilt there, Buffy feels, and a throbbing, brief need to fill the void she knows is gaping in Faith's chest.

Buffy kneels down and looks around furtively. She does not know whether she's checking if the coast is clear for monsters or for the exact opposites, but she wraps her arms around Faith's small, bony shoulders and lets the smaller Slayer dig her head into the crook where Buffy's neck and shoulder meet.

Faith thinks, for a second, this spot is _her_ spot.

But under Buffy's fingers, her skin is tense. It tightens up into a hundred little electrified knots, all pushed together harshly. Between the weak sounds Buffy figures have been held back for years, she hears Faith's not-quite-feminine voice choke, "Q-Quit it, B, you don't gotta make like I'm a sissy-girl just 'cause I'm cryin' or anythin'."

Buffy is still carefully walking the mental line. She wants to consider Faith tough, but can she? Her standards may seem unrealistic, but lack of realism is what being a Slayer is all about. Faith has shown weakness in the face of danger, but in that absolute end-game she's also risen to the challenge. Buffy just cradles the brunette and says, so softly, that it'll be alright. That she shouldn't be scared or afraid, because it's over now, and it'll be alright.

Wild-eyed and childish, like a deer in the headlights, Faith keeps her Godiva-colored eyes trained on Buffy's own snowflake-blue ones. She murmurs something beneath her breath, a passing glance of a remark, and rests her ear against Buffy's arm to let her eyes slide shut.

She hones in on the blonde's heartbeat and, for a few moments, time stops for the Chosen Two.


	4. Slayer Bonding

They don't stop training. Neither wants to give up the feel of sheer flesh on flesh, the beautiful agony constantly caused by the horrible, crushing continuum of blow after blow. Neither stops nor flinches, fluctuates or changes; they keep on in an effervescent dance.

"Gonna win, B," Faith grunts, and a kick high enough to take the top off a cloud is easily blocked by Buffy's small wrist. When Buffy grabs her ankle, Faith loses pace a little and Buffy feels more victorious than ever.

"It doesn't matter. If I was a vampire, you still wouldn't have won. You still wouldn't have dusted me by now, anyway." Buffy's grin is cocky as she twists Faith's ankle around, but the brunette responds by jerking her whole body in the same direction, dropping all her weight onto her left foot and spinning violently from the older Slayer's grip. Faith's scent crawls all over Buffy's hands, and she has to stop a moment to push herself to her senses.

"If you're gonna take verbal shots at me, I'd say it should be when we're _not_ fightin' hand-to-hand. You'd do best to use yer tongue for other reasons than jokin', Buff."

Faith loves the way Buffy's cheeks turn the softest shade of rose whenever she talks. It leaves a satisfied flutter in her stomach, and she holds out a hand to ask for a slap in good, 'friendly' nature. Buffy accepts it, but the contact is so much different than the rigorous punches of exercise. It's sweet, in its own way, and with a look into Faith's russet-brown eyes Buffy thinks that it's all an act, this attitude.

Faith has a lost puppy's eyes. Faith has an expression that makes Buffy think of a small, weak dog that's been kicked one time too many. Where Buffy's eyes are cold and nearly self-assured, Faith's plead for the desire of companionship.

Buffy thinks about the taste of Faith's merlot-lipstick for a few moments, the vague memory that they've both tried to push aside, and just off-handedly murmurs whether or not Faith would like to get a slice of pizza. The younger Slayer agrees. Buffy watches Faith walk out, and counts. This will be the twenty-second time she's paid far too much attention.

XxXxXxXxXx

"What exactly is it that sets you so ballistic all over whatever undead creep you're about to dust, Faith?"

Faith's hands twitch at the pizza crust and flinch. Her eyes, her sweet, puppy eyes, harden a little and she just hisses, "N-O-Y-B, _B."_

Buffy curses her least hidden talent. The ability to shred away the flesh from an old wound, expose the nerves and then hack at them 'til they're raw. Faith twirls a strand of her hair around a slender, pale finger (_her hair matches her eyes_, Buffy thinks) and keeps her scowling expression affixed on a distant salt shaker.

"I'd just like to know if I'm going to be helping you out for awhile, _F."_

They play this game well. One insults, the other retaliates, and they both do their bests to dissolve the flashing, quick moments of hatred spread thickly in pretend farces. Faith's expression stays guarded, but she shakes her head regardless.

"You know, when you talk about things that bother you, they…well, they bother you less."

Buffy's favorite thing about the Slayer she feels like she's known for years is that Faith's eyes are so much different from her's. Buffy's blue eyes can cut stone; Buffy's eyes are made of diamonds. Faith's eyes play every thought, every feeling, every moment easily behind them. Faith doesn't flinch away from the question like she did a few seconds ago. She knows to keep her stance right, now, something Buffy half-regrets, half-admires.

"Ya know what else, B?" Faith plants her feet on top of the table they're seated at, outside, and her boots make a dull _thud! _of a sound, "stuff doesn't bother ya if you don't think about it _or_ chat about it _at all. _It's a fascinatin' concept, really."

Buffy confuses Faith, backs her into a mental corner. Faith doesn't know how to react to someone who cares for her enough to clamp and carry on. Buffy's lips are in that perpetual pout, and Faith is almost alarmed by how much about the blonde good-girl she's come to know after only a few days. Faith knows that Buffy makes her feel worlds younger than her; like Buffy is forty and Faith is ten. Faith knows Buffy tastes like things Faith would love to cling to for hours and hours. Faith wants to unscrew Buffy's lips from that stupid expression. Faith wants to force Buffy to spend five minutes acting like more than the damsel-in-distress-turned-hero. Faith wants to be the hero; Faith wants to turn Buffy into her very own blushing damsel in distress.

"So your plan is to go through life doing nothing but shanking the undead, without ever thinking about anything else?"

"Should learn to play with your food, Buff," Faith grins, a sardonic sort that feels Cheshire to Buffy and sends shivers down the blonde's spine, "Makes life so much more worth livin'."


	5. Role Reversal x Damsel in Distress

Patrol night once more, Buffy's level of distraction has heightened. But, no, it can't touch Faith's. Faith's ability to keep her mind on one subject seems to flounder entirely, before she absently walks the graveyard with a stake at her belt loop, hands stuffed unceremoniously in her pockets.

"Humid tonight, isn't it?" Buffy's attempted at breaking the silence is as pathetic as a three legged dog. Faith only casts her sheepish glance and mutters under her breath, "Uh huh…"

Buffy is starting to accustom herself to awkward Faith, which seems a new Faith altogether. The two have found that the afternoon's anxiety has dispelled over time, and Buffy assumes that it'll take some time, but Faith will eventually explain a little more about herself. Buffy is probably wrong. It'll probably take years for the younger Slayer to say more than a witty, perverse quip. To say something worthwhile.

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy swears she can see something move. It's brief, like a small shift, then, all at once, it disappears.

"Gettin' paranoid, B?" Faith's grin pushes out, but it disappears, buried under the butterfly-flutter rubble. She works at her pockets again, humming in the back of her throat carelessly. Buffy sees the flicker again, but she thinks nothing of it.

She thinks nothing until the figure behind Faith begins to get bigger and bigger and the brunette-Slayer can't avoid its reach until there's a sharp _CRACK!_ The back of her head throbs, splits, gives way to the feel of warm scarlet. She hits the ground with a thud like a bag of bones.

Whatever the demon is, it seems shapeless. It moves without an ounce of sound, without a breath or footprint. Its eyes blaze furious yellow in the musty heat of the Sunnydale night, and Buffy dodges a fist that seems to grow larger in its swipe. When Buffy looks over, Faith convulses and holds her head lightly, grimacing in pain. There's too much red in her curly, messy hair for it to be safe. Buffy swallows down a nauseated ball of fear.

Whatever the thing is, she wishes Giles were there. She wishes Giles could tell her its weak points, its strong points, anything at all when her stake gets swallowed by the oceans of black and the creature easily seems to snap it in half. Its stomach (if that can even be called that) eats the wood whole and it shatters into splinters. The splinters are consumed, and Buffy can only stare with a wide-eyed fascination. In that second, panic rushes in the blonde's gut like a rabid wolf eating away at its flesh-cage. They say before you die your life flashes before your eyes. Buffy only sees the endless black night, and Faith's twitching body as she slowly comes to.

Absently, the word escapes her lips, "Faith!"

All she can do is pivot on a foot, dash away from the jackhammer fist about to connect with her body and kneel beside Faith. She quickly beckons the younger girl, but Faith's eyes can't seem to focus. Thick, dark red, sticky liquid seeps down the back of Faith's neck and Buffy's 'Slayer senses', as she's fond of calling them, override her panic. She stuffs Faith's arm around her shoulders and sprints off. She narrowly dodges another vengeful shot, and all that can be seen is the blonde Slayer's sleek physique racing past the coming horizon.

XxXxXxXxXx

"Giles!"

Buffy's voice reverberates off the door, but she's relentless as she slams harder and harder. Faith lets out soft sounds against her, little questions of curious things. Buffy shoves aside the thoughts that Faith's a nuisance, pushes out of her head the notions that Faith is the meddlesome bad-girl come to take her spotlight. Buffy's heart-gripping anxiety is enough to force those acidic feelings right from her mind.

"Buffy?" The Watcher murmurs, and sleep laces his thick accent. His spectacles lie askew at his nose, and his eyes narrow to stare into the breaking dawn like the coming light is too much to handle.

"Giles, there was this—something, this really big, black—_something._" Buffy stops her rambling, realizing, as the dizzy Faith leans against the doorframe. Her normally innocent features draw into a look of near-constant pain, and the younger Slayer purses her lips in discomfort. "And I think Faith's got a concussion, and I just—I didn't know what to _do."_

Faith's eyes blink, so hard it looks sore. The only words to cross her mind are –_And I think Faith's got a concussion._

_Faith would know_, Faith thinks, dizzy on her feet and yearning for a cigarette and a place to lie down, _If Faith had a concussion._

"Large, black creatures of the amorphous sort?" Giles asks, but his voice is curiously soft. Dribbles of understanding lace his words carefully. "I believe I've got a decent comprehension of what you're hinting toward."

"Wanna pack'uh cigarettes from the qwik-e-mart, B?" The smaller one mumbles, confused, and Buffy just takes her softly by the arm and begins to pull her inside with the less-than-gentlest of touches. Giles pauses; an eyebrow raised, his glasses tickling the bridge of his nose, and just carefully scuffs at the droplets of blood Faith leaves behind as she walks.

By the time they set down on the large living room couch, an icepack successfully applied to Faith's bloodied forehead, little Faith is already out like a light. Buffy resists the urge to reprimand her like a little sister and, instead, trades that for a few moments to watch Faith in an unconscious slumber.

And, Buffy figures, Faith looks like the damsel in distress.


	6. Roomies

When Faith wakes, to the impending feel of throat-burning nausea and a collection of colored spots floating in her eyes, she doesn't know what to make of the world around her. Giles' voice fades into the distance—_they can manipulate __**something something something**__ souls of dead into shadows to act as puppets and __**something something**__ fighting a giant._

Nothing sounds quite right, and all the sounds going on around her make Faith feel like she's being held underwater. Giles' couch is warm and soft and comfortable, not like her bed back at the motel. Her bed back at the motel is horrid; the springs give it a life of its own. They squeak with indignant discomfort whenever she lays her tiny back on them, accuse her of weighing them down. She's not comfortable with the argument she could have with the springs, so she turns on her side and declares herself done with them.

"Good morning, utterly reckless, unfocused Slayer."

"I never thought I'd hear the day." Giles says, and Faith swears there's pride in his voice. She flinches and opens a single eye, and there's B in all her blonde glory. Despite her words, her tone belies her thoughts, and Faith groans quietly.

"Love wakin' up to your sunny face, too, B." She half-slurs, and it feels like her head beats around the bandage it's so complicatedly wrapped up in.

"You really should, considering without me you wouldn't be breathing right now. You'd be chow for a big, dark thing."

"A form of shadow demon," Giles corrects. Faith wonders if he's ever helpful when it's necessary. Faith wants to know when, in mid-demon-vampire-ass-kick Giles spouts his words of infinite wisdom. "It is attracted to negative energy, apparently, from what my research has…produced."

"Ya sure someone just didn't drop a pile of cement blocks ontop'uh my head? Doesn't that only happen in cartoons?"

Faith learns that the act of sitting up brings on the sensation of nausea too strongly, and for a moment she swears she sees discomfort flicker across the princess' face. Buffy pauses and it withers, until the glance turns into something of a warning shot and Faith rests her neck back on the arm of the couch. She hates this stillness. She always, _always_ needs to be moving, fidgeting, shifting somehow.

After the moments of deafening silence, Faith crosses her arms over her chest and squiggles around for a moment, again. She turns her back on them, feeling dizzy and completely at a loss, and stubbornly faces the cushion. She doesn't need Slayer senses to feel Buffy's ice-cold eyes burning holes in her lower back.

"It is my suggestion that Faith does not reside alone in that room. It's not a wise decision. She's managed to gain a fairly severe concussion, and it's very possible that she may jeopardize her own life in this state. It is dangerous enough that she is a Slayer, but to be a Slayer with a concussion is exponentially more hazardous."

Giles' voice crawls with the unintentional undertone that can only sound like _she's not staying here._

_Story of my life,_ Faith figures, _not even the Watchers want me anymore._

"So she can…she can stay in…my room." Buffy sounds more like she's questioning her own words, and Faith's eyebrows perk all the way up. With how dizzy she feels, Faith wonders if that was a hallucination, but Buffy keeps talking, "Mom likes her enough."

Faith snorts, but shuts her eyes quickly and pretends to sleep. The sarcasm in Buffy's voice is unavoidable, but in total honesty, Faith could care less.

XxXxXxXxXx

When Faith stumbles out of Giles' sad jalopy of a car, (_Broken down like the old man,_ Faith thinks, sardonically), Buffy takes her doggedly by the crook of the arm. She bites back a sneer, but resists the urge to say something simply unsavory. She's too busy fighting down the taste of complete illness.

"You've made mom's day. She's wanted to put that silly couch in my room for weeks, now she has the ultimate excuse." Couch? Faith only vaguely hears what comes out of Buffy's mouth, and when her fingers linger to her pocket she realizes she has no cigarettes. When the movement stops, she also realizes it's not _her_ pocket she's searching through. Buffy only raises her eyebrows at the Dark Slayer, but Faith is still rummaging.

"These aren't my cig'rettes." She says, but Buffy's expression just gets a little more _what are you doing?_ The slur in Faiths' voice only alarms her.

"Let's just—" Buffy shudders, and swats Faith's confused hand away, "Let's just go upstairs, 'kay?"

Faith nods dumbly with another sarcastic snort. She doesn't feel like being patronized.


	7. Safe and Sound

It would have been a rigorous task, dragging the semi-sofa up that flight of stairs to Buffy's pleasantly-painted room, but for Buffy it'd been nothing at all. Slayer-powers, she figured, were dandy gifts when they were put to good use (like furniture-moving.)

When Buffy lies down under her blankets, Mr. Gordo nestled warmly to her breast—she hears Faith speak up in the dark.

"What's up with the piggy?" She blurts, holding her head lightly as she coils against the cushion. Buffy's ears practically prick, and she flicks the lamp on her bedside table on. Faith's face, illuminated in the slight white glow of the bulb and the even paler light of the moon, is nothing short of innocent. The bandage around her forehead shows slight speckles of maroon, and Buffy's reminded that even Slayers can take a hit too hard to handle.

"Mr. Gordo?" Buffy asks, protectively cuddling the stuffed thing. Mr. Gordo is her security-comfort, her semblance of normalcy. Mr. Gordo is the universal line between Slayer-Buffy and sleeping-in-sheep-jammies-Buffy. "Mr. Gordo is my stuffed animal. He's—you know, comfortable. Didn't you ever have a—"

The statement falls dead in thin air. It suspends there, and hangs, and it hurts all at once. Buffy knows there was no Mr. Gordo for Faith to cling to when things got too bad to take. Buffy knows that the consolation of Mr. Gordo's stuffing is a foreign subject to Faith. Which is why she's surprised when Faith mutters gently, "Well, gimme a fluff'n'stuff, B, you got enough to stock a five year old's Christmas tree."

Buffy carefully regards her collection of little stuffed toys. Which would work best, which would suit? You have to be careful about these kinds of things. A piggy, like Mr. Gordo, won't do. There's a threadbare, Peter Cottontail-ish bunny with a worn button-eye. There's a stuffed ducky with a butter-yellow coloring, but it's just _not cute enough._ Amid the barnyard menagerie, Buffy settles on the bunny. It's sweet, cute, but it's a little damaged. Just like Faith.

"How's about a rabbit?"

Buffy can almost hear Faith thinking in the half-dark. The Dark Slayer seems deep in thought, her eyebrows scrunched, until she lets out a pained little noise and then nods, "I always did dig bunnies. All that Peter Cottontail jazz got me. That rabbit on Winnie the Pooh, though? Gotta eighty-six that fella."

Buffy tosses the bunny over and watches Faith's should-be-quick reflexes Faith when the stuffed toy beams her in the chest. She fails to catch the thing, and Buffy's brief moment to worriedly look over is answered by Faith's movements. The other curls up tightly into a ball, the rabbit tucked under her chin. It tickles her skin, grazes with its fuzzy fur. Rabbit was the first stuffed toy Buffy ever picked out all by her lonesome. She's proud of the thing, and more so of the reaction it elicits from stone-cold Faith.

"You have to name him, though," Buffy says, matter-of-factly, and nods to re-affirm her statements, "He's not really yours until you give him a name."

Faith's smile is playful, albeit dopey, and her eyebrows raise straight up. She presses the bunny to her cheek affectionately, shuts her eyes and speaks slowly, "Buffy, how do you like that name, Bunny? Buffy. All you gotta do is put two 'n's in place of where the 'f's are and you got it, you're Bunny again! 'Magine that."

Buffy clicks the light off. Except for the sounds of Faith's uneven snores, all is quiet.

And Faith loves Buff(nn)y.


	8. Touch

When Buffy wakes, there's a curious lack of little-Slayer-sis. In fact, she's nowhere in sight, and Buffy only knows this because there's a pale, slight buzz in the back of her head and the feeling is too curious for her to explain. She knows it relates to Faith, somehow—it must. She pushes it down for a few moments, tells the feeling to _shut up_ and hunts around all the small corners of the place. Behind the mini-couch, in the closet…no sign of Faith.

A brilliant idea strikes, though—okay, so maybe the idea isn't so brilliant. Maybe the 'brilliant idea' is only the sound of Faith's low groans; unmistakable, unavoidable, exhausted. When Buffy makes her way into the bathroom, the sight to behold is only Faith, curled up on the floor. A small pool of thick, goopy maroon gathers just at the side of her head, and her eyes are shut tightly enough that her eyelashes flutter. Her face pales a sickly, slate gray, a stark contrast against her dark-chocolate hair. Buffy doesn't speak yet, but just watches as Faith literally hugs the toilet. The sad, ravaged rabbit lies listlessly at the bathroom counter. It looks lonelier than it ever has.

"What happened, Faith?"

"Dunno," The younger Slayer finally acknowledges, and her eyes crack open just enough to see. Buffy notices they're run through with ugly, bright red veins that spread around like spidery tree branches. "Woke up, an' everythin' got all dizzy. Then I tossed my cookies an' my head started leaking. Guess I'm broken."

Buffy takes in the bitter irony of that remark. _Guess I'm broken._

"Lemme see your head," Buffy coos, and kneels down. Faith's eyes roll upward and glance over the rims of her eyelids. She has puppy dog eyes again; puppy dog eyes that make Buffy so gently melt. She reaches out tentatively, but Faith growls when her fingers touch lightly at the bandaging, and her whole body kicks in a brief, immediate spasm. "Doesn't look good. It won't heal for awhile, Faith. You could house a tiny alien colony in that crater."

Apparently, Faith doesn't find it so funny. She just closes her eyes and shudders, this full-bodied kind of convulsion. Buffy can't understand why Faith looks eternal worlds worse than she did yesterday, but it is, she assumes, a very bad sign.

"It's Saturday. Mom makes pancakes on Saturday." Buffy doesn't know if she sounds expectant, cheerful or soft. Talking to Faith is, often, like talking to a kindergartener who needs to be gently pet in order to keep them happy. Buffy treats Faith likes a spoiled little kid who will throw the mother of all tantrums if they don't get their way. She doesn't know why she does this. The eventual point is that Faith likes Joyce, and Joyce is gradually beginning to love Faith.

"If'n I put so much as a tic-tac in my stomach, the results'll be the apocalypse." Faith crumbles into a tiny ball again, a hand flat at her stomach, her palm pressed stoically against the pale expanse of tummy. She flinches her eyes shut for the fourth time in a matter of minutes, and Buffy lets out a sigh. There is no getting through to Faith, because Faith will refuse to listen altogether and ultimately not care.

There is no trying, is there?

So all Buffy can do is gently mop up the puddle of blood at Faith's head when she writhes briefly like an animal with a swift twitch. It sort of hurts, Buffy figures, because she had to raise Faith to lean against the cabinets and draw away all the dark red from the sticky strands of chocolate-brown.

Buffy pauses, her eyes wide in a sudden flicker, and Faith's littler hand catches the blonde Slayer's in a swift motion. Her fingers caress the other's, not brief, this time, but soft, and she squeezes at the tips tenderly. It almost looks like it's intentional, and Buffy doesn't shy away from the contact. She just swallows hard when Faith's tired eyes turn downward to her fingertips and her lips purse like she'll say something. She doesn't speak a single word. Not even a syllable. She just lies against the bathroom cabinets (against the sink, under Buff(nn)y's watchful eyes) and stays silent. Her face drains almost completely. The color is gone.

Like a zip or an electrocuted ember, the contact is gone and they both let go and Buffy hastily searches for more bandages. Neither speak.

Faith stares at her fingers.


	9. Mindless Musings

Faith eats pancakes like she's going through the motions. Her eyes are glassy, and it's written all over her face that her head throbs. It's a deadly, mechanical motion. Stab (quite viciously) with fork, tear off piece of pancake, scoop in mouth, swallow, repeat. Empty-eyed and gulping, Faith's brow creases every few seconds and twitches like a convulsion. Joyce tries to coax her from her maple syrup coma, but it's useless. Joyce worries, and Buffy casts glances through her glass of milk.

"So, Faith," Joyce tries, and the air hums with a cheerfully awkward buzz, "How is the-- Slayer business?"

Business? Faith blinks hard, slowly, her chocolate-Godiva eyes sluggish, and gives a lopsided tilt of the head. She's not focusing, not at all, and Joyce smiles worriedly. Faith does nothing but breathe.

"Super," Buffy adds helpfully, and throws another look toward Faith. All Faith does is stake another pancake and gobble it mercilessly. Buffy sighs.

Breakfast is hopeless.

----------

Giles hasn't called, and it's still daylight, so Buffy stays inside with the nigh-catatonic Faith at her heels. She dogs after B's steps like a shadow, and when they get up to Buffy's room, Faith lies in her bed like she owns it. Faith has been hugging Buff(nn)y all day.

Buffy goes to say something, but she stops and pays attention. Faith sleeps like a pill bug, like a Tootsie Roll, coiled into a tight ball. Faith is safe when she sleeps, like a miniature piece on the Candyland board. She's silent, and her dark eye lashes cast pretty shadows all over her pale cheeks. Buffy sighs again. This will be the eighth sigh today.

"Well, this is a great situation," she breezes, and speaks to no one in particular. The wind listens. "Just me and the kinda unhinged Slayer, having a sisterly heart-to-heart."

Faith's breaths are even and far between. Her chest rises and falls in the pajamas Buffy lent her (patterned with little Christmas trees. Buffy guiltily loves the naiveté Faith inhales, the innocence she exhales) and she presses her knees almost tight to her chest. Faith is protective in slumber, like she expects to be ambushed by an army. Faith has slept with one eye open for too long.

Buffy's eyes can't help but wander to the stuffed bunny in Faith's arms. Faith buries her nose into the rabbit, clutches it hopefully like a thread of sweetness. Something in Buffy warms over, somehow.

The bandaging at Faith's forehead hasn't quite turned a deep scarlet, but it's on the way to dark maroon. The gash is healing slowly, but quicker than would be normally considered. Buffy thanks a god she doesn't fully believe in for Slayer healing.

Buffy is slightly thankful for this experience. This injury has taken away Faith's harsh disposition, stripped the girl to a vulnerable (albeit vomiting) state, made it so much easier to manage her. Buffy has, she will admit, grown fond of the damn nuisance that is Faith the vampire slayer.

Faith's lips move like she's talking, but it's more or a sleepy motion. Her every muscle is wound up, tightly sprung. Buffy can't help but wonder if Faith is more 'Slayer' than she is. Faith is some kind of animal. Faith is some kind of monster.

Buffy watches.

And Faith sleeps.


	10. Stolen Kiss

"Up an' at'em, atom-ant."

These are the words Buffy wakes to lazily. She comes around from where she fell, stretched across the comforter of her bed, a hand trapped at the crook of her neck, her elbow resting on the cushiony mattress. Watching Faith has sufficiently taken the energy out of Buffy.

"It's time for some prowlin'." Faith uncurls from the bed, and Buffy watches. She blinks herself into existence, it feels like, and stretches on the palms of her hands. Faith's lips quirk into a bit of a sarcastic grin (but the grimace doesn't go unnoticed) and she rasps, "Way to go, ballet B."

"You wanna—" Buffy's words are swiftly engulfed by a harsh yawn. The entire sound just swallows up the sentence, "—You wanna 'prowl' with your head like that? Don't purposefully put yourself in for a world of planet owch."

Faith's attempts at sitting up bring in the 'planet owch' Buffy formerly spoke of. But Faith has learned that pain is an integral part of being a Slayer. Slayerism requires the ability to tolerate extreme amounts of discomfort without batting an eyelash. Either you do, or you just crawl into a corner and die like a pitiful puppy-dog. Faith is familiar with pain, acquainted with it, in love with it.

"I'm patrolling tonight. _You're_ sleeping tonight. Sleeping _a lot."_

Buffy catches herself doing that _thing_ again. Staring at Faith, watching Faith. Faith's lips are a light pink underneath the usual hooker-rouge, the lipstick that's finally faded away. Buffy swears she looks worlds better without all the makeup; the weird, dark stuff that contrasts her pale skin.

Buffy wonders about Faith more than she knows she should. Why she knows Faith is 'damaged goods', like a bike that's beginning to rust. Buffy begins to want to know the reasons that have made Faith break. The death of a watcher, a torment beyond reason…but what else? There's more than that. But it wouldn't be fair to dig now, Buffy decides. Not when Faith isn't at her one-hundred-percent; not when she's prone to incidental statements. It wouldn't be a fair match.

"Come _on_, B." Faith groans, and clutches stuffed-bunny to her chest as she lies down in Buffy's bed. The blonde doesn't do a thing but look her over briefly as Faith rolls onto her stomach. She lies her forehead on the mattress and breathes in deep.

"If you're overcome by the urge to barf, bathroom's next-door. Or you could use the garbage pail next to my bed as temporary puke central."

Buffy doesn't know if it's an accidental reflex or the concussion, but Faith reaches out for her again. The brunette takes her hand in her's and squeezes it, but remain burrowed face-down in the bed. The groan is audible, but all she managed out is, "I owe ya a great big favor for this, Buff."

_Yeah_, Buffy thinks, but doesn't let go of Faith's hand. The younger Slayer seeks out her warmth, and Buffy decides it's best not to decline it. Maybe just this once. _A great big favor._

For a few seconds, Buffy doesn't move. For a few seconds, Buffy doesn't even _breathe._

She feels suddenly regretful that she needs to go on patrol. A part of her wants to stay and cling onto Faith; Faith, who when she's all back in order will have nothing but contempt and witty quips for Buffy.

Buffy wants to enjoy this while she can.

So, when Faith finally uncoils enough to rest her chin on the bed, Buffy takes advantage slowly. She leans in gently until she's sitting on her knees, then ducks low enough that her lips meet with Faith's when she contort against the mattress. Surprised, the younger Slayer muffles a small sound into the blonde's mouth, but when they break apart Faith's look of dumbstruck confusion is unavoidable.

Buffy licks her lips. They taste sweet. And she smiles.

"I'll be back later tonight. And when I come back, your ass better be parked right in that bed."

Faith touches her mouth disbelievingly. Her eyes swim with confusion. She doesn't have an inkling of how to react to this.

When the curtains blow with the sudden departure of Buffy Summers, the room fills with a billowy breeze. Slowly, her brain thumping with a million questions, Faith begins to smile.


	11. Touches

When Buffy returns to the scene of her crime (she can still taste Faith's lips pressed against her's, the sensation of her bed beneath her cheek, the deathly warmth the smaller Slayer gives off pulsed there) Faith is just where she left her. It's lucky, she figures, and winces lightly at the mild twinge of pain in her ribs. It'll heal in a few hours, she knows that so well, but for now it feels like her sides are being subtly spread apart by an expander.

Needless to say, it stings.

"Rock'em sock'em lots of fun patrollin', B?" Buffy can't help but wonder if Faith doesn't sound tipsy. Do concussions make people tipsy? She considers it silently when she looks over, and Faith clutches the pillow that reeks of good ol' B against her stomach in a deathgrip-embrace.

Faith's eyes are a dark shade of bloodshot. Buffy almost knows she's been puking her brains out, or she's pretty much sure of it. The younger one runs her pale, skinny fingers through her dark hair and rolls onto her back. She keeps clutching the stuffed thing, and Buffy realizes that, between the pillow and Faith's eloquently toned body, is Buff(nn)y. He (or she? Would Faith declare the bunny a 'she'?) looks even more worn than he did hours ago.

"Yeah," Buffy smiles, and nervously tucks a strand of gold behind an ear gently. She can't really conceal the slightest flinch, "Rollicking good time."

Rollicking? Faith entertains the word in her head.

And Buffy realizes something very awkward. Faith has taken up residence in her bed (and Buffy has more than encouraged it, it seems) and Buffy desperately pines for a good night's sleep. Can she even get close enough to Faith to share the bed? The blonde stands there anxiously and wrings her hands a little. She needs to gather up the strength for it, the conviction. She's never felt this shy.

"Betcha it was a blast."

She can't change in front of Faith, so she wanders silently into the bathroom and begins to peel painfully out of her bloody sweatshirt and ancient track pants. Faith makes her feel like every inch of her is exposed; she doesn't need that feeling minus clothing, too. Spots of dark red flit around the bathroom, obvious signs of Faith's illness, dashed here and there in maroon splotches across the sink, peppered all over the floor scarcely. When she tugs the t-shirt over her head ('patrol clothes', Buffy calls them, things she isn't afraid to get dirty) and stares at the reflection of her pale ribcage, dark purple globs, circles, all shades of blue and black lie there. She looks for a few more seconds, until a voice sounds from the doorway.

"Nasty shot ya took there. Vamps get a little frisky?"

Frisky is not the word. Buffy looks for another synonym, something that will accurately describe it. It isn't frisky, no, something a little more violent. Impossible, maybe? Violet. Uncomfortable. Nasty.

And Buffy halfway cannot stand the way Faith loves to sneak up on her. Emotionally and physically, for that matter.

"Hurt a li'l, B?" She steps forward and Buffy's entire body tenses into a single flinch. It's all one big, discomforting muscle when Faith wraps her arms lazily around Buffy's bare sides and Buffy realizes she's just standing there in a bra and those old-reliable track pants and Faith's tight around her lithe body and it's just such an uncomfortable situation.

But Faith has a concussion, and it's not Faith's fault.

Or it might be Faith's fault. Faith might be well over the harsh bump to the noggin and just playing artfully with Buffy's comfort zone. Buffy might be another one of Faith's love-you-leave-you-throw-you-away mentality.

Regardless, Buffy doesn't fight it. She doesn't even go against it when Faith tucks her head into Buffy's shoulder and yawns affectionately. And she grins, oh she grins, like a wild dog with a chew toy. She runs her long fingers over Buffy's injured flesh, ghosting little touches along playfully. All Buffy feels at that moment is alive.

"A-Alright," Summers stammers, and suddenly her eyelashes flutter briefly and she exhales in slight shock. It's not purposeful, purely incidental. "Time to pause, rewind. I desperately need some shut-eye. I have a huge chem. test tomorrow."

The truth is that standing there, half-naked in her bathroom with the tiny Slayer attached to her waist, she's never wanted to go to bed less.


End file.
